Drumline
by hexagonalslugs
Summary: There comes a time when everything falls apart before coming back together. It makes a pitted feeling curl up in his stomach, slithering through his gut until he feels like he needs to curl up tightly, but he never does. He never does. Just marches on.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Dave wakes up to find himself staring at a dull, somewhat grossly cottage-cheese spackled ceiling, minaturely impudent bumps of whatever the fuck they used to make the disgusting texture. Everyday two bedroom one bath apartment grade. Just like every day before then, even if it wouldn't be completely true.

Refocusing, he can see strings tacked up from wall to wall, a smattering of photos hanging from them. A deep breath lets him know that his shelves are still cinderblock and plywood, and the soft tinge of formaldehyde and alcohol continues to speak for his collection of dead things. Not to mention the somehow always-clean smell of Bro's smuppets – a smell that permeates the entire lonely Texas apartment.

Crooning out the window makes him sit up. Stupid crow. Probably sat there since ungodly hours in the morning, just watching him sleep. Creepy fucker.

With a groan, Dave hoists himself up and out of the tangled sheets. They're on top of a naked mattress, and the entire concoction of a resting place can hardly be something called a bed, but it is, and a pretty comfortable one when it came down to it. Immediately, and smoothly, his shades are settled on his face.

Looking out at the window again, the crow since then, gone, he sees it's probably about noon. Apartment buildings go on for what seems like forever, but it's just an illusion, he knows. He ambles a bit closer and peers outside, looking down to the street below. People are antlike, and cars are somewhat more the size of caterpillars.

The sounds of the city below reach his ears – his room – the entire apartment – easily, a roiling, turbulent noise he's grown so accustomed to. Closing his eyes, the sounds nearly match the soundtrack of a hot, arid place from so far away, so long ago.

He doesn't let his mind wander for long, but an unchecked sigh slips from between his lips, leaving his blank expression quite studiously alone. He turns away from the window, room greeting his be-shaded and open eyes.

Things don't change much in five years. It doesn't appear as such in his room, at least. Sure, his turntables and computer got a little upgrade, slick, newfangled models and all that.

A particularly stuffy gust of hot air ushers Dave out of his room. He wasn't surprised to see Bro sprawling out on the couch, clad only in boxers with a sweating beer half empty and ignored by his feet, hands preoccupied with the xbox controller, as he walks out into the living room.

Soundbytes of prerecorded gunshots, groans made unearthly for zombies, and repetitive quips mix with the dull throes of the city below, making an even more incoherent medley as Dave roots through the sparse pantry.

Cereal.

Lucky Charms, of course.

Actually, it was an off brand, Magic Marshmallows, or something ridiculous like that.

Disregarding the colorful illustrations of garishly cartooned children and magical marshmallowed shapes on the box, he pours himself a generous bowl. Offhandedly, he notes that he only got five chalky marshmallows in the entire bowl of the stuff. The box is returned to its home in the pantry, next to a couple of cans with the labels removed (they said things like SOUP, or FRUIT, nonspecifics).

Turning to the fridge, Dave doesn't hesitate before opening it. The swords in the fridge had been a long-running activity in the apartment, until a new nosy neighbor tried to help herself to a beverage even after Dave assured her Bro didn't have bottled water.

Dave searches for milk, unperturbed to find that there isn't any, but there is a slowly accumulating pile of tantō behind a six pack of beer whose sixth member was alone in the living room. Of course, it wasn't exactly a pile, per say, but a collection of three of the six to twelve inch blades. He closes the refrigerator door and turns to his bowl of cereal, lonely and milkless.

There is a crackling and a hiss as Bro tears into a bag of Doritos in the other room, which Dave disregards, and takes to picking out all the x shaped pieces of frosted cereal, popping them one at a time into his mouth. After a few moments, the shrink-wrapped commercial-size pack of juice boxes finds itself one apple juice-filled cardboard companion less as Dave sets himself up with a drink.

Breakfast, or rather lunch, is quickly finished despite his picky habits. He crunches the final sad, dehydrated excuse for a marshmallow and unceremoniously taps the crumbs out of his bowl, where they are joined by the empty juice box. The thud of the cardboard box is mostly lost in Bro's obnoxiously loud chip munching and the xbox.

He replaces the mostly clean bowl with its kin in the cabinet before heading back out to the living room, flopping down next to Bro, snatching the disregarded beer. Dave tips his head back, taking a drink of the swill. It's some of the cheaper stuff, but hell, it's okay. Beside him, Bro continues blowing the brains out of zombie hordes until there's but a solo, and unfortunate, crawler, dragging itself across the concrete, all bark and no bite.

Wordlessly, Bro holds out his hand.

The beer.

Dave lets him have it back, not sparing a glance toward him, just watching the screen, reminded of a certain growly someone.

Bro downs the rest of the beer and commands the loud mouthed, stupid marine on screen to knife the poor little crawler. The prerecorded byte of 'K.I.A., Maggot-sack!' follows Dave as he returns to his room.

The weather is much too hot for closed doors, so he leaves it open. He grabs a clean change of clothes, surprisingly not from the floor, though he still employs the sniff test. Whatever his nose deems clean enough is good enough, and with that, he strips off his briefs, tossing them into a pile of clothes across the room. He steps into a clean pair, and tugs on thrift store jeans, torn and ragged but wearable, and a patterned tee, pink and brown, 'unnatural disaster.'

A pair of mismatched ankle socks find a new home on Dave's feet, and they're soon tucked under his ratty red chucks. He taps the toes of his shoes on the floor a couple times to get his feet to settle comfortably in them as he slips his sparse valuables into his pockets: iPhone, wallet, keys. Beats by Dr. Dre, another gift, settle around his neck.

"Going out."

And he was out the door, past the broken down elevator to begin the tedious trip down sixteen flights of stairs (thirty two, really, since it took two tiny flights to go down one floor). Dave slips his headphones up, on to his head, flicking through albums until he's suitably drowned in music.

The sounds of cars fall deafly around him as he walks along the street. The dry heat is amplified by the asphalt and concrete and buildings with bright glass windows, though regardless of all that, not many are venturing out, not without a car. Still, Dave walks, the rhythm of his chucks on the concrete in time with the beats permeating his brain.

In his pocket, under his hand, the iPhone is buzzing with Pesterchum, but with only an on-screen notification, Dave is still unaware. Before him, a rundown playground is shimmering in the heat waves, as if it's behind a sheet of water.

When he sits, the swing protests with crackled creaking noises, sun-dried rubber seat giving halfhearted indications that it might crumble, but, of course, it doesn't. The heels of Dave's chucks dig into the sand at his feet, a good foot or so away from the long rut under the decimated swing. He pulls the musically-inclined cellular device from his pocket, finally nursing to the Pesterchum alerts.

First, he looks out past the chain link fence, staring out into sparse traffic, then up and up and up until he can see the sky. Clear between the buildings, it's blue as can be, purely untouched by the hellish temperatures below.

The first alert to come up was John. Dave felt his mouth twitch into a near-smile. Derpy kid, teeth too big for his mouth, heart to big for his own good.

His eyes scanned the messages rapidly,

-ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 1:24-

EB: hey dave  
>EB: daaaave dave<br>EB: whatever, just answer when you finally check your phone  
>EB: i was just gonna check in<br>EB: you know, see if you remember you've got a flight to catch next friday heheh  
>EB: i can't wait to see you, man!<br>EB: you better be ready for all the prankster bro shenanigans i've got planned  
>EB: anyway, i gotta go, gotta work all week so i can get the next month off when you're here<p>

-ectoBiologist [EB] is offline-

Of course he remembered. And of course John would remind him. Even if it's somewhat sparsely compared to years before now, it's always been like him to worry over Dave remembering this, Dave remembering that. And this was an especially big thing to be worried about.

Then he saw the next alerts: Rose, reminding him that there was more to do than just mope around. There were things to do, and nothing could change what happened five years ago.

In other words, it was all things Dave knew already. He had moved on. A long time ago, in fact.

He got past it when he got past it, and he still won't stop walking to his own drum.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The week had passed by in bleakly over-hot weather, both Dave and his brother seeking shelter in the apartment with quipped trips to the 7-11 down the street for refreshments. Honestly, for Dave, it was a blur that he did not pay much attention to. It was all about Friday afternoon, and Friday itself found Dave packing freshly cleaned laundry.

He takes his toothbrush from the bathroom, but has to leave the toothpaste – the tube there is the only one in the entire apartment anyway. Messily folded shirts and jeans cover Dave's laptop in the bottom of his rather small suitcase. He clasps the thing and zips it closed, dropping his pre-printed ticket into the topmost front zip-pocket.

Dave lets his headphones rest around his neck, iPhone having already made a home in his front jean pocket, wallet in his back. He barely misses the sound of Bro coming up in his doorway, "Got everything, little man?"

"Yeah."

"Here."

Dave turns, finding Bro holding his wallet out to him. That's when he realizes the lack of weight in his back pocket. Oh. Nonetheless, he reaches out to take his wallet back. "Get him something nice." And with that, Bro is gone, and the sounds of Modern Warfare 3 overtake the apartment once more.

Without checking to see how much Bro had put in, Dave slides the wallet back into his pocket and tugs the off-brand suitcase off of his bed.

When he passes Bro behind the couch, Dave flicks his hat off of his head, "Bye Bro," And he's out the door, feeling his ex-guardian's gaze on his back until the door closes behind him. Then he's heading down the stairs without looking back.

Dave reaches the street at the same moment the bus heading toward the Dallas Fort Worth airport pulls up to the stop. Striders, always known for arriving at the right time. It's not until he's on the bus, sitting in the very back like he always does, suitcase between his legs that he finally looks back at the apartment building.

See ya.

I'll be back.

The bus ride, uneventful other than a poor kid wailing for thirty minutes of the three hour long trip over dropped ice cream, felt like one of the longest he'd ever taken, and he'd taken some pretty long bus rides in the past. It took a lot to stop himself from listening to music. Even if the flight would only be an hour and a half, he wanted to keep his iPhone on for as long as possible – he knew John would be texting him off the hook.

Soon, the sweeping arches of the front entrance and the circular terminals came into view, and Dave was plugging a response to John.

hey john texting for bat power just got to dfw gonna check in soon

Dave stands, carrying his suitcase out in front of him as he gets off the bus, reading John's response with the other hand.

Oh! Okay! So it'll only be like… Two hours before you're here!

yeah ill let you know when im through security ok bro

He tucks his iPhone away again, strolling up to the self check-in terminals. Following the directions on-screen, he digs his pre-printed ticket out of the suitcase, unfolding and smoothing the paper out in his hands. Dave reminds himself to slide the barcode through the reader slowly – this isn't the time to be a dipshit and take longer than need be.

The terminal beeps at him, demanding identification for the scanner. Dave fishes around in his wallet for his license, and lets the machine read it at its sluggish pace. It reads out a cute little 'Thank you,' and loads a screen asking him if he wants to check in bags.

No. That's fifty bucks I don't need to waste.

It pauses to calculate and load, then prompts him to select the number of carry-ons.

One.

The next screen loads quickly, saying he can change seats if he wants. Dave finds that the only available ones are upgrades and he declines.

Without much prompting, the machine returns to the default intro, and Dave folds the ticket and shoves it in his pocket with his wallet now. Luggage in tow, he heads to the line for security delineating access to terminals all the terminals via Skylink.

hey john just got in line for security and its lookin longer than lines in the red district for the top whore

Dave pockets his phone, glancing at the signs nearby that tell him how small his toothpaste has to be, and how firearms and dangerous weapons are not allowed in carry-on luggage. Sluggishly, the line inches forward, and he turns his attention to the kids ducking under ropes and between people until a parent somewhere in front of him practically screeches at them to come and stand by mommy and stop running around.

His phone buzzes, and he smoothly whips it out to check.

Oh wow Dave hehe. That sounds pretty long, gosh. Well I hope it doesn't take forever!

nah it shouldn't probably fifteen minutes then i definitely gotta get something to eat shit im starved

Daaaaaave! Don't eat too much okay? Bathrooms on planes are gross. Ewww.

yeah i know bro don't worry besides i gotta make sure i can eat that dinner youre making right

Yup! I gotta stop texting for a while, Dad needs me to help him out with it actually. Hehe

He deposits his phone in his pocket, coming up to a small podium where a TSA agent sits, a few sparse supplies nearby. "Afternoon, sir," She says, somehow upbeat in spite of the stuffy atmosphere and rather strained parents beforehand.

Dave tipped his head in a slight nod, and handed her his ID and ticket when she asked for it. "Washington, huh? Escapin' from the hot weather?" She glances back and forth from the ticket to the ID, clicking her pen, and then to Dave's face, slightly perturbed by the fact that his photo is rather shifty, shades and all.

A shrug lifts his shoulders, "I guess."

The TSA agent circles a few numbers, and then initials the bottom before speaking again, "alrighty then, Shades, everything checks out – have a nice trip." She returns his ticket and ID, motioning for the next person in line.

Dave moves on to the next line for the actual checking part of the security check, and drops his phone, along with his wallet and ticket into a plastic bowl, grabbing himself a bin from the stack next to the metal tables. "Make sure to remove all aerosol cans, gels, liquids and electronic devises from your luggage. Please take laptops out of their cases before putting them on the belt," someone from the other side of the tables drones.

The attendant, clad in a cop-looking uniform, was another TSA agent. He's pretty big, heavy set but burly, and doesn't give Dave the nicest look.

Ignoring him, Dave shucks off his shoes and pulls his belt through the loops on his jeans, and puts them into the bin. It takes him a little while to dig his laptop out from under his haphazardly packed clothes, but he manages quickly enough, and fits it into the same bin as his shoes, headphones coming to rest atop it. As he moves down the tables and nears the x-ray and arching metal detector, Big n' Burly follows along, pacing with him from the other side.

"Son, I'm going to have to ask you to take off your sunglasses."

Dave's gaze swivels to the skinnier TSA agent standing by the metal detector, who nods and corroborates this.

"I can't."

"Son, you have to put them in the bin." Big n' Burly rumbles.

Dave turns, looking him square in the eye through his shades, eyebrows dipping slightly. "It's medical, man. Can't take 'em off, noted on my ID. Guess you'll have to pat me down." Dave's voice is smooth, flat, dangerously emotionless.

Big n' Burly shifts a little behind the tables, glancing at Skinny, then back at Dave, then to a guy who Dave assumes is the boss, who's manning the x-ray itself. Bossman shrugs, "Put his stuff through, n' put 'im through the imager."

He turns his attention back to Skinny, who lets him through around the side of the metal detector to a different machine, which looks like a weird blue shower without the shower head, just tons of little black nozzles, and a white bar running from the floor to the ceiling on a track. It sits between two of the rows of nozzles.

"Step on in and stand on the yellow foot prints, hold your hands above your head, don't move, and don't try to get out before the doors open and let you out," Skinny intones, looking at him from the exit side of the device. He hits a button on the interface a few moments after Dave lifts his arms above his head. He can feel the eyes of people in line behind him on his back, and hear disjointed voices buzzing, propagating from person to person.

Then the fucking machine puffs air at him from all fucking sides. It's cold air, and smells kind of dusty, but Dave doesn't flinch. In fact, he's just watching Skinny watch him, watching Skinny be unnerved with the fact that he can't tell whether Dave's actually looking at him or not. Dave smiles inwardly at this, but nothing shows on his face, as usual.

A low humming noise starts, and the white bar begins to move. Skinny opts to explain, "It's doing a scan now, so don't move."

And Dave doesn't move. He hasn't moved so much as a muscle since stepping into place in the claustrophobic blue plastic and Plexiglas box. It leaves him stranded inside for a good minute before the doors finally start opening. Dave hasn't even started lowering his arms when Skinny, on the outside, holds up his hand and tells him not to get out yet.

His hands have dropped to his sides, and it's been about thirty seconds before Skinny finally lets him leave, waiting until the doors have slid all the way open.

Dave brushes past Skinny, who kind of lets out this irritated sort of noise. He finds his luggage and belongings already through the x-ray, and quickly re-pockets his belongings and resettles his headphones in place around his neck before placing his laptop back in the suitcase, this time only under a single layer instead of trying to shove it underneath everything again.

He drops his signature, well-worn chucks on the ground, shoving his feet into them as he threads his belt back around his hips and moves away from security, following signs to the Skylink after checking the ticket once more. Flight 1025, terminal C 12, American Airlines.

It doesn't take long for the Skylink to arrive at the doors, a soft dinging noise alerting pedestrians that the tram was arriving, and they should stay behind the yellow lines. Dave files his way into the tram, entering at the very last door, taking a spot at the pole at the furthest back. A little boy hauls himself up to sit on the carpeted ledge (obviously not meant to be a seat). Soon after, a smaller girl came running up, trying to join him on the ledge.

The boy is too absorbed with staring out the back window, watching the environment of planes, some parked and some moving to park at a terminal. Dave looks down at the little blond girl, who so obviously wants to get up there and see too, but her mother's preoccupied chatting away on the phone.

Dave turns to her and picks her up, setting her next to her brother just in time for the both of them to witness a plane taking off from the runway. Small 'woah's leave their mouths and Dave, for the life of him, almost smiles, but doesn't. The automated voice of the tram pulls his attention away from the kids.

"Next stop, Terminal C," It proceeds to reiterate the same thing in Spanish, then reminds passengers to exit in a safe manner.

The mother turns from her phone for a few seconds, tone nearly berating, "it's not this one, Joshua."

The little boy hadn't even asked anything of her, both he and his sister were busy pretending the tram was a rollercoaster, or whatever it is little kids do when they're in their little world.

Dave readies to leave, and as he goes to take a step toward the slowly opening doors, he looks back to a young voice, the girl. "Bye, Mister!" She chirps, and this time he actually does smile, a tiny upward curve to his lips, and the girl giggles. He gives the little man a fist bump, then leaves, knowing the two of them are waving exaggeratedly, the way little kids do.

It reminds him he was supposed to text John when he got through security. Looking up to check the signs – terminals 1-20 are to the left, and that's where he heads as he pulls out his phone to shoot a text John's way.

just got off the tram walking to the terminal looks like everythings on time like it should be

About a minute gives him a reply from John.

That's great! We're gonna head out for the airport in half an hour or so… Oh my gosh I'm so excited, Dave!

i know man i know just keep a lid on it man dont wanna lose all your excite bro

Dave nearly finds himself chuckling, and he allows himself to for a moment as he flops into a seat at terminal C 12, tapping his fingers on the arm rest almost as soon as his hand falls against it.

A measly fifteen minutes until boarding time. Dave shifts in the pleather seat, tugging his ticket out of his back pocket. This tiny slip of paper – and about 150 bucks – is gonna get him to Washington. To John.

He let his head tip back, and slid down, eyes closing. The air pumped into Dallas Fort Worth International Airport was cold and crisp, a big difference from the air outside, but a welcome one.

Dave doesn't even realize he's fallen asleep until the intercom-crackled voice from the desk wakes him. For the first time in a long time, he startles awake, fist clenching about half of the printed ticket into a crumpled mess. He smoothes it against his leg, listening to the announcement in the terminal.


End file.
